


Forget About the Math for a Second

by Peeko



Series: Forget About the Math for a Second [1]
Category: Numb3rs (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, rated mature for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 23:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peeko/pseuds/Peeko
Summary: Charlie never expected much from his soulmate. After all, no one really understood him, so chances are pretty good that his soulmate ends up thinking he is just as weird as everyone else does. Of course, that doesn't mean that when he stumbles upon his soulmate in the middle of an investigation, he is okay with the guy not realising who he is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, super old fandom I know but what can I say? I was inspired. It should really be rated Teen but I wanted to be careful just in case anyone though the language was too much for a teen rating. Let me know what you think! Also I am thinking of turning this into a series so let me know if there is anything you would like me to write about!

The crime scene was frenetic. Charlie probably should have expected it, considering the public outcry that had already been building when the third sniper victim was announced. A fourth was bound to bring everything to a tipping point. The normal patterns that characterised the organised chaos of a crime scene were almost entirely done away with. Instead, everywhere Charlie looked there were crowds of people. Reporters, news crews, LAPD, and throngs of curious bystanders that wanted a closer look at the latest sniper victim. 

“Fucking hell, it’s a circus. What the hell is LAPD thinking, allowing all this to potentially screw with the crime scene?”

“Considering how high profile this case is, I’m not sure they had much of a choice in the matter, Don.”

At Terry’s response Don, like always, seemed to deflate a little. Softening his seemingly perpetually roughened edges in a way that always had Charlie curious about their relationship. Don liked to think that because Charlie was often overwhelmed by the numbers screaming for his attention, he didn’t notice things outside of math. 

Things like Terry. Terry, who had said Don’s words when they first met, but whose own words didn’t match Don’s. 

Things like that happened. If Don had ever bothered to talk to Charlie about it he could have given him the odds of it happening. In fact, Charlie had tried a few times when they were younger, much to Don’s apparent frustration. Don’s words were what most people called ‘common’ or ‘everyday’. Scrawled up the side of his left bicep, in neat, cursive handwriting are the words _It’s nice to meet you, Agent Eppes_. Charlie could have broken down the numbers. How many people speak English, how many people a person meets on average, how many people Don is likely to meet since he became an agent with the FBI. The variables go on and on and paint a picture far less dire than the one that Don had somehow convinced himself he was facing. Certainly a picture that wasn’t worth torturing himself over someone who would never be his soulmate, no matter how much Don wished otherwise. 

But he didn’t ask Charlie. So Charlie stayed silent. And if his obliviousness at times was only 60% real, then he stayed silent about that, too. No point rocking the boat and all that. Besides, things with Don were actually working towards some semblance of good. They talked. They laughed and watched games with Dad. They worked together. And Charlie was too happy to have his big brother back in any capacity other than distant acquaintance to risk messing that up.

“David is working on an ID for the vic. The LAPD detective over there should have the forensic info you were talking about, Chuck.”

Startled out of his thoughts, it took Charlie a second to realise that Don was pointing over to a taller, graying man with sunglasses on. Nodding, he leaves Don to poke at the dead body and shuffles over to the detective.

“Detective, I’m Professor Charles Eppes. Special Agent Don Eppes from the FBI told me to ask you for the preliminary forensic report.”

The detective gave the customary once over that Charlie had come to expect working with any kind of law enforcement, before nodding and motioning to another officer passing close by.

“Ramirez, get the prelim forensic report.”

“On it.”

“You’re the math guy, right?”

Charlie barely resisted the eye roll he could feel those words bringing on. Somewhere between his second and third case with Don that crossed into the jurisdiction of other law enforcement departments, the moniker had somehow stuck. Don, of course, found it hilarious. And when Charlie had tried to talk to Larry about how it made him feel like he was, once again, the kid nerd amongst a bunch of roided up jocks, Larry seemed to think Charlie should be flattered by whatever level of notoriety he had managed to accumulate through his work with the FBI. Then again, Larry only ate white foods, so Charlie thought that it was perfectly okay for him to question his mentor’s logic just this once. 

“Yep, Professor of Applied Mathematics at CalSci.”

“And you think you can, what, use algebra to solve four homicides?”

Opening his mouth to take in a deep breath, Charlie was gearing up to begin his, by now, standard “everything is numbers” speech when a uniformed office suddenly materialised next to him and the detective.

“Got the report, boss.”

“Thanks Ramirez. Make sure that Briggs is keeping those news crews off my crime scene, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

Before he can respond the detective’s previously unanswered, and rather petty, question, Charlie is momentarily distracted by Ramirez running off to the other side of the crime scene. The officer has a unique gait that his mind can’t help analysing to calculate how many steps it will take him to reach the cameras and reporters. Just as he is finishing his small, impromptu equation, a clipboard is suddenly shoved in his face.

“Well, here’s the report you wanted, Professor. Have at it.”

With that, the detective (and Charlie is now realising he never actually got his name) turns around and starts to bark more orders at the uniforms frantically moving back and forth around them. Taking that as the dismissal it clearly was, Charlie turns his focus to the clipboard, taking in size of the wound, angle of entry, position of the body, and a myriad of other factors. Looking around, he brings down the walls that he has built over the years, letting the numbers have free reign. Overlaying them on top of everything he sees until it is all he can perceive, until the world around him fades into variables and nothing more.

Wind speed, 15 mph = 6.7 m/s. Atmospheric pressure md²7/dt² = –Dsinθ. On and the variables go. Density of the projectile, wind direction, temperature, humidity. Probability it came from the balcony to the right: 23%. Probability that it came from the balcony on the left: 68%. Probability that the shot was fired from the stairs leading up a small hill: 87%. Stairs it is.

Bringing up his walls once again, Charlie blocks out the numbers until the world around him begins to come back into focus. As sounds sharpen from a dull murmur, once again transforming into something meaningful rather than an incomprehensible static, Charlie listens as the detective discusses pulling some uniforms to canvass for the point of origin of the shot. 

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

As he is explaining the mathematics behind his calculations, part of Charlie couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the looks of amazement on Don, Terry, and David’s faces. The detective he could understand. He has never seen the “math guy” perform his trick. But there was something almost insulting about the way that Don and his team were constantly blown away by what he could do. As if Charlie actually having some practical value outside of a classroom was such a foreign concept that every time he helped them it was treated with the same awe and disbelief that a talking dog would garner. 

Sometimes, in his darker moments, when the numbers got to be too much and the pull of P vs. NP was almost inescapable, Charlie wondered if he would always be like this. Ever so slightly wrong, set apart even from the people he spent most of his time with. Even people like Larry and Amita sometimes couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t see, _feel_ , the numbers like he could. Couldn’t understand the times when they got to be too much, when they overwhelmed every defence he had built up in an effort to fit in. To be closer to normal. Charlie often wondered if his soulmate would be the same. Wondered what they would see when they looked at him. Wondered if he would be too much, even for the person whose small, compact writing curled around his right ribcage. 

Resisting the temptation to give in to the almost lifetime habit and reach towards his words with his left hand, Charlie instead focuses on Don, leading him towards the stairs and then up to the point that he estimates the shot originated from.

“So, I’ve done some rough calculations of trajectory models based on the bullet’s angle of impact, wind speed, and direction, and I approximate that our sniper fired from right around here. This spot here. See?”

Pointing back towards the crime scene for Don’s benefit, Charlie takes a moment to run through his calculations once again. Yep, 87%. Probably not as accurate as it could be, considering that he was estimating some important variables. But, even with all of that taken into account, he is fairly confident in the math. Charlie let himself feel the excitement of proving himself and helping his brother for a few moments, happy that his mind could help stop a killer. 

Of course, his quiet enthusiasm didn’t last long, as a stranger’s voice called out from their right. 

“Actually, it was more like here.”

The world stopped. Literally, it all stopped. His heart beat. His breathing. The _numbers_. All of it crashed to a halt, leaving Charlie in possibly the only moment of complete stillness he had ever experienced in his life. And just as suddenly as everything halted, it all came back in a rush, inundating him with sensation, sight, sound, and, as always, numbers. Suddenly, the same calculations that he had been contemplating in regards to Don just half an hour before flooded into his mind, only now they took on a new, more immediate meaning. 

Instinctively, Charlie’s left hand reached across his chest, lightly brushing over his sixth rib and the words that he had memorised from the moment his mother had sat him down and explained what they meant. Ever since that afternoon, Charlie had looked at them so often that he could replicate the words from memory alone. He knew every swish and flick of the handwriting, had sat there for hours at a time imagining possible scenarios that would prompt those exact words.

Of course, it never actually occurred to Charlie Eppes that the first words his soulmate would ever say to him would be to say that his math was wrong.

What an asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian Edgerton. Agent Ian Edgerton. Charlie’s (possible? probable?) soulmate was Agent Ian Edgerton. A sniper. An arrogant sniper. An arrogant, impossibly handsome sniper that made Charlie want to simultaneously climb him like a tree and punch him in the face. In fact, Charlie has spent the entire car ride back to CalSci with Don in total silence as he ran calculation after calculation to try to figure out which he actually wanted to do more. 

He had barely even registered Don’s parting words, too caught up in trying to work out if he could actually generate enough force to damage Edgerton’s face more than his own hand, and then decided that maybe his time would be better served just getting the man naked as fast as possible. However, immediately after this idea came to him, the words “good guess” had rung in his head, and he was forced to begin his calculations all over again, except this time taking into account also kicking him in the shin. Or the balls. Maybe both.

“Professor Eppes?!”

“ARGH!!”

Body jerking violently in response to the unexpected shout aimed at him, Charlie suddenly found himself flailing mid air and then crashing to the floor as he lost balance on the chair he had been precariously tipping backwards.

“Oh my god! Professor Eppes! Are you okay?”

“Amita?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You emailed me asking if I could help with some calculations for an FBI case.”

“I did?”

The only response Charlie got to that question was a fondly exasperated sigh as Amita moved forwards to help him disentangle himself form the chair. Now that he is thinking about it (and momentarily not consumed with thoughts about The Sniper Who Shall Not Be Named), Charlie does have a vague recollection of sending an email to Amita at some point during the car trip from the crime scene. Except…

“I asked you to come at 4:30.”

“Professor, it’s 4:45. I’ve been knocking on your door and calling out for you for fifteen minutes. I would have thought that you weren’t in the office, but I could hear you talking softly to yourself and assumed that you were busy or stuck on a problem. I would have left you to it, but your email sounded urgent.”

“It’s 4:45?”

Charlie was mildly annoyed that he had apparently spent the last two and a half hours sitting in his office contemplating Ian Edgerton. His probable soulmate. Who was also a dick. A massive dick. A massive dick who was cocky enough to possibly have a massive dick, although the fact that he played with guns all day could mean that he was compensating for something. Deciding that running calculations to work out the size of another man’s penis in the presence of his grad student was probably not the most professional thing to do, Charlie pushed the thought aside for later contemplation and began struggling to sit up. 

“I’m really sorry about that Amita. I have… I think… I’ve had a weird day.”

“Clearly. So what was the case that you needed help with?”

Working on the math helped Charlie to keep his head clear. Or at least it gave him something to focus on other that Ian Edgerton’s stupid smirk and sunglasses. Just as they were beginning to look at performance differentials for same caliber bullets as it relates to drag coefficient models, however, Larry came into the office to bring some levity and humour to the room with discussions of arbitrary and inescapable death. Which, Charlie supposed, at least had the benefit of distracting him for a few moments as he contemplated how much it would sometimes suck to live in his mentor’s head. Then, of course, Larry began a discussion on lifetime regrets and missed opportunities, and Charlie’s mind was once again cycling back to its new favourite topic.

“You seem distracted Charles.”

“Huh?”

“You seem distracted. Your mind is somewhere else, and I don’t think it is contemplating bullet trajectories and sniper proficiency.”

At the word sniper, Charlie rips his gaze away from where he had been sightlessly staring at his blackboard and swivels over to face Larry.

“Where’s Amita?”

“Miss Ramanujan left about ten minutes ago. She did tell you she was leaving. Twice. But you seem otherwise occupied. Care to share what plagues your thoughts?”

Charlie takes a moment to think over what his thoughts actually entail and how much he is willing to share will Larry. Probably not the climb like a tree thing. Or the penis size calculations. 

“Do you ever think about your soulmate?”

The silence that greets that statement tells Charlie probably more than enough, but sometimes there is an advantage in people thinking that he is completely oblivious to social precepts. One such perk is that he can, often times, get away with being intrusive and rude. And as if on cue, Larry exhales noisily and leans forward from his position on the couch.

“Sometimes. I must say the idea intrigues me somewhat, but as I’ve never met my soulmate, the romance of it all is somewhat lessened. Why?”

Turning swiftly back to the blackboard, Charlie begins to bite at his lip while writing random equations with the chalk piece still in his hand. He knew that he could tell Larry anything. In fact, out of everyone in his life, Larry was probably the only person he could talk to about this. His Dad wasn’t an option. Ever since their mother died, his Dad had never wanted to discuss anything even slightly related to soulmates. The idea of talking to Don was, of course, laughable. Not only was Don about as in touch with his feelings as your average garden gnome, but Charlie could only imagine Don's reaction to his soulmate possibly being Ian Edgerton. 

“I think I met mine. My soulmate, I mean.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“I take it from the ‘think’ and the fact that you are currently here, ostensibly calculating drag coefficient models, that you did not raise this possibility with them.”

“Well… no. I pretty much entered some kind of fugue state, spent ten minutes discussing the case with him, and then stormed off.” 

At the disapproving silence that greeted Charlie’s answer, he couldn’t help but feel the need to elaborate. 

“He said my math was wrong.”

“Ah. Yes, I imagine that did distract you somewhat. Wait. Does this mean that the ‘disagreements over the sniper’s expertise’ is with your mysterious potential soulmate?”

“Probable.”

“Hm?”

“He’s my probable soulmate. Based on my calculations, the chances of someone else saying my words are rather small. Hence, probable.”

“And his words?”

“What?”

“His words, Charles. The words you said. Were they common? Or distinct?”

At this, Charlie’s hand stops drawing what have effectively become mathematical doodles. Fuck. What did he say?

“Umm… I’m not sure?”

“Come again, Charles?”

By this point, Charlie was beginning to panic somewhat. His fingers seemed to have lost all ability to grip and as the piece of chalk clatters to the ground, he suddenly feels faintly nauseous.

“Larry, I don’t know. I can’t remember what I said to him!”

“Oh dear.”

“What if I said something like ‘hi’? What if I said the most common thing that has ever been said and he has no idea who I am?!” 

“Before you stop breathing entirely, Charles, we should consider this logically. Do you mind if I ask what your words are?”

Charlie had never actually told anyone his words. His mother and father knew them, but that was because they saw them when he was young. Charlie was fairly sure that if Don had ever seen them, he doesn’t remember the specifics, or he would have reacted when Edgerton said them. Some people didn’t have the luxury to keep their words private. It was hard to keep people from reading things on your arms, hands, neck, or, for the unlucky few, face. But Charlie’s was in a spot that not many people had occasioned to see, since he wasn’t really in the habit of wandering around in public without a shirt on. In fact, likely the only people other than his parents who had seen his words are the few people he has slept with over the years. But seeing as how they knew he wasn’t their soulmate, they likely didn’t pay much attention to the specifics. 

“Um… They say ‘Actually, it was more like here.’ I had estimated the point of origin of the sniper’s shot. He was telling me I was wrong.”

“Charles, you are a wonderful person and a extraordinary mind, but I think we can both agree that you do not do well with someone telling you that you are wrong about anything, _especially_ math.”

“Your point being?”

By now, Larry was chuckling softly to himself and smiling at Charlie as if he was a particularly adorable puppy. Charlie wasn’t sure if he hated it or not.

“My point, Charles, is that if the first thing your soulmate said to you was to tell you that your math was wrong and that he knew better than you, your response would have been far from common. In fact, I would not surprised if it was passive aggressive bordering on blatantly rude.”

Charlie took a moment to think about this. It made sense, he supposed. Considering the fact that he was still contemplating throwing pieces of chalk at Edgerton’s head the next time he saw him, his response was probably less cordial (and therefore more memorable) than a simple ‘hello’. Just as Charlie was considering this, and feeling an internal scale shift slightly more towards kissing Ian Edgerton like there was no tomorrow rather than physical violence, Charlie had a thought that left him cold.

“Larry, what if it was distinctive? Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was in shock. I literally cannot remember anything from that entire conversation with him after he said my words. I obviously was not fully cognisant.”

“Maybe he was experiencing something similar?”

“He is a trained, world-class sniper that specialises in fugitive recovery, somehow I doubt he has issues operating at full capacity under pressure!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Charles. I suppose you will have to talk to him to find out.”

But Charlie just realised something that made him very certain that he was never, _ever_ , going to discuss anything remotely related to soulmates or words within a five mile vicinity of wherever Ian Edgerton could be. Because if Charlie’s words were as distinctive as Larry suspected, then Edgerton knew that Charlie was his soulmate. And he said nothing. 

And the only reason why he would say nothing would be if he didn’t want Charlie.


	3. Chapter 3

There had been another sniper shooting. Luckily this once hadn’t resulted in any fatalities, but it was close. A woman was bleeding on an ambulance gurney from a bullet to the shoulder, and Charlie couldn’t help but feel totally useless. They knew who they were looking for but couldn’t find the guy. So here Charlie was, out in the field (despite his Dad’s clear concern for him leaving the safe confines of his classroom), trying to find some bit of data that will help his equation make sense of this all. And to make matters worse, Ian Edgerton, sniper extraordinaire was skulking around the crime scene looking like some cover model from Ruggedly Handsome Men Monthly. So Charlie was alone in the creepy warehouse the sniper shot from, writing away on his clipboard of equations and feeling as far from ruggedly handsome as someone can get.

“Hello there, Professor. Still figuring the angles?”

God fucking dammit. Of course Edgerton found him here, where Charlie had expressly come in an effort to avoid him entirely. Trust the biggest dick of them all to never give up an opportunity to continue being a dick. Charlie took a moment to lament the lack of chalk and the fact that he only had to one pencil, which he needed to write down his calculations so could not afford to lose, even if it meant missing out on the satisfaction of throwing it at Edgerton’s head. 

“What I’m figuring is the reason why he missed. This shot is way closer than any of the others.”

It’s a good thing Charlie had finished speaking because his mouth was suddenly, unaccountably dry and his throat felt like it was suddenly home to his heart. Edgerton apparently had no concept of personal space, because as Charlie had been talking, he had wandered up to stand right next to Charlie, then proceeded to lean over him pointing out of the window in the general direction of the crime scene. Charlie suddenly found himself having to remind his body to breathe. Which became infinitely more difficult when Edgerton began speaking again, his jaw gently brushing against Charlie’s temple as he talked.

“Well, closer doesn’t mean easier. He had a higher risk of being seen here.”

Luckily for Charlie’s heart and ability to actually remain standing, Edgerton moved off to the side after his proclamation. Sure it was still closer than social etiquette would qualify as a respectful distance, but at this point Charlie was willing to work with what he was given. And anything was better than Ian Edgerton’s lips being less than two inches away from his. By this point, Charlie was considering revising his atheism if it meant some higher deity would gift him the ability to speak normally while it felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest.

“Well that wouldn’t affect the shot itself though, would it?”

Edgerton seemed amused by this, if Charlie was judging the bemused smirk this question earned him. Honestly, no one should make smirking look so attractive.

“Forget about the math for a second.” 

Okay Charlie was back to wanting to stab him with his pencil. ‘Forget about the math’? This man was obviously not Charlie’s soulmate. No way. No soulmate of Charlie’s would _ever_ say anything so utterly ridiculous. Obviously Charlie was mistaken and Ian saying his words was a fluke. They happened all the time. Look at Don. Maybe he and Charlie could use it as a brother bonding moment, laughing over the times both of them thought they found their soulmates and were so obviously wrong. Of course, when Ian gestures for Charlie to come closer while opening the window next to him, Charlie’s traitorous heart skips a beat or two, so maybe Charlie is the victim of a cosmic joke and Mr. Forget About the Math is his soulmate after all. 

“Try to think like he does. Invisibility is a sniper’s greatest strength. He starts to worry about losing it- his heart rate increases. He doesn’t know how to handle it- his breathing rhythm gets thrown off.”

Considering he is currently experiencing the exact same symptoms standing so close to Ian as the sniper directs his laser pointer out towards the scene, Charlie can sympathise.

“Breathing rhythm?”

“You’ve really never fired a gun?”

It’s weird, but Ian is looking at Charlie with the exact same adorable puppy look Larry had been giving him the other day. Charlie wasn’t sure if he hated it then. He is trying very hard to convince himself that he hates it now. He’s not really sure that it’s working.

“I don’t really believe in them.”

“’Believe in them’? It’s not like they’re ghosts.”

Okay, Charlie officially hates the look. And hates Ian. And is slightly disappointed that Ian shut the window because defenestration sounds like an excellent idea right about now.

“Obviously, that’s not what I meant.”

As Ian begins listing variables that can affect a sniper’s ability to shoot effectively, Charlie’s attention is caught momentarily by a flash of black on the skin of his inner right forearm. It’s not enough to make anything out, but the visible reminder of Ian’s words is like a cold bucket of water poured over his head. Charlie almost wants to laugh at himself being so pathetic. What does it matter that Ian is ridiculously handsome and his probable soulmate? What does it matter that he says stupid things like ‘forget about the math’ and then gives him a look that turns his insides into the approximate consistency of goo? Because the answer to any and all questions like those is simple: it doesn’t. Because if they are not soulmates, Ian Edgerton wouldn’t give someone like Charlie the time of day. And if they are, then he obviously doesn’t want to waste his time with Charlie. And if that thought makes Charlie’s heart feel like it is getting squeezed painfully, then no on ever has to know.

“That’s the difference between an expert marksman and a guy who aims at white meat and goes home with a wing.”

At Ian’s statement, Charlie can feel his humiliation at his pathetic situation transform into anger. This man may think he is too good for Charlie to be his soulmate, but at least Charlie isn’t a fucking psychopath.

“A woman got shot today. Not some… animal”

“I see. So when I regard her as a technical problem, I’m a sick bastard. But when you plug her into an equation, you’re a scientist?”

Charlie hates the fact that in a little corner of his head, Ian’s question rings true. For his own sake though, he quickly shoves that little voice into the deep recesses of his mind, right about where he keeps P vs. NP.

“It just seems like it’s all some kind of sport to you.”

“It’s my job to put my head inside the mind of a killer. Your brother’s too.”

With that, Ian turns around and begins walking towards the warehouse’s staircase. Charlie can only sit there for a few moments in contemplative silence. If it was anyone other that Ian, Charlie would have sworn that there was sadness in his eyes just before he turned his back on Charlie. Or if not sadness, maybe disappointment? But neither of those made sense. Why the hell would Ian Edgerton be sad or disappointed about anything related to Charlie? Unless he knows Charlie is his soulmate and is disappointed. That would probably make sense, now that he thinks about it.

Charlie’s ever-darkening thoughts are, however, suddenly interrupted by Ian, who is still walking away from him, calling out and asking if he is coming. Deciding that standing in an abandoned warehouse brooding is a little too cliché even in light of his maudlin thoughts, Charlie makes his way towards the staircase Ian had just walked down. When he gets to the bottom, however, he is surprised, to find Ian leaning against the opposite wall, obviously waiting for him to come down. As Charlie gets closer, he sees Ian open his mouth as if to say something. Considering where their previous conversation had left off, Charlie figures it is better to not let Ian say whatever it is he is meaning too (most likely another insult about Charlie’s lack of firearm experience). He really can’t handle much more heartbreak today. 

“Worried that I would fall and break my neck? I can promise you that while I may not know how to shoot a gun, I am fairly proficient at walking.”

Ian snaps his mouth closed in response, pushing himself off the wall so he is walking half a step in front of Charlie. Realising that he was being unnecessarily rude, Charlie tries to smooth over the awkwardness that had settled over them by discussing the problems he was having with his equation. It was oddly settling, and by the time they exit the warehouse and run in to Terry, Charlie is feeling about 48% calmer than he had been before. In a way it makes him even more despondent, because if Ian can make him feel this way when they don’t get along, Charlie can only imagine what their relationship would be like if things were different and Ian wanted him. 

Because as much as he hates to admit, Charlie is beginning to realise that he wants Ian. The man is insufferably arrogant, smirks constantly, and often leaves Charlie wanting to stomp on his foot. But he is also intelligent, dedicated to his job, and possibly everything Charlie has never known that he wanted. Which makes all of this so much harder.

Of course, over the next week, Charlie doesn’t have much time to contemplate his growing fascination with all things Ian Edgerton. Their initial theory of a serial sniper was, in fact, revealed to be wrong. Instead, he and the FBI were left chasing multiple copycat snipers all across LA, trying to catch them all before anyone else got it into their head to jump on the bandwagon. Which is how Charlie found himself at a shooting range with a rifle and his brother, debating whether or not beginner’s luck was empiric or not. Which it wasn’t, no matter what golfing anecdote Don brought up.

Of course, all considerations of beginners luck or the new variables and equations that are running around his head are completely wiped from his mind when Don calls out to an alarmingly familiar man.

“Edgerton! What are you doing here?”

Charlie watches as Ian looked up from the beautiful blonde woman he was talking to, his heart stopping at the way his smile transforms his whole face. The woman, who Charlie is assuming is also FBI based on her sweatshirt, says something to Ian that makes him laugh and then, with a smile in his and Don’s direction, walks away to a booth. Charlie quickly decides that for the sake of his pride he is going to ignore how jealous it makes him feel to see Ian flirting with someone else, and attempts to take on as unaffected an air as he could. 

“Hey Don. Professor. I heard David and Terry talking about how you and the Professor were coming down here and wanted to offer my assistance.”

“Thanks man, but we just finished. He actually got a pretty good shot. Beginner’s luck I guess.”

“No such thing.” 

The response was instinctive for Charlie, so it takes Don’s laugh for him to fully comprehend that he wasn’t the only one who had said it. Looking over at Ian, Charlie sees that he has a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are bright with something that resembles happiness.

“You don’t believe in beginner’s luck either, Professor?”

“It’s counter-intuitive.”

At Charlie’s response, Ian’s smile gets wider, revealing a flash of teeth. It’s also at this moment that Charlie realises he has, at some point, begun referring to Ian in his head by his first name, rather than as ‘Edgerton’, which seems significant for some reason. Charlie can’t remember when that had started though, which bothers him immensely.

“Ha! I suppose it is, Professor. So, you going to show me that it was skill and not luck?”

At this invitation, Charlie can feel his cheeks heat up and fights the knee jerk response to yell back YES at the top of his lungs. He settles for a shy smile and a nod and can’t help the swooping feeling he gets in his chest when Ian’s smile widens even further. Of course, that would have to be when Don puts his stupid, freakishly large foot in it.

“Actually, I’m Charlie’s ride, and our dad is expecting us for dinner in about half an hour. Maybe another time, yeah?”

At Don’s response, Ian’s smile vanishes and Charlie fights a new impulse to jab Don in the stomach with his elbow. 

“Right, yeah. Of course. Well, I’ll let you guys get to it. See you at the office, Don. Professor.”

With this parting comment, Charlie watches as Ian turns around and gives them a wave over his shoulder. His heart just about drops to his feet when he realises where Ian is heading. Sure enough, Ian wanders over to the blonde woman who is currently finishing up changing her magazine, capturing her elbow with his hand and seeming to correct her shooting stance. Charlie is so focused on watching Ian with this woman who somehow seems a hundred times more perfect for Ian than he is, that he doesn’t even notice Don talking at first.

“C’mon, Chuck. We should get going. And remember, do not fucking tell Dad about this while I'm in the house, okay? Because I don’t want to die tonight.”

Charlie just nods, keeping his head down as he and Don walk past Ian and the woman, desperate not to let the sniper see that his heart was shattered on the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

As Charlie gets out of the car, he lets the numbers slip into the front of his mind, rapidly scribbling on his clipboard as he makes adjustments to his equations. He is working on some probabilities concerning where Cane might position himself, hoping that he can help Don and his team find the shooter before anyone else is killed. He can feel the world falling away from him as he focuses on the numbers, letting everything else just slip until he can’t even hear anything but the soft sounds of his own breathing and the pencil scratching the paper. It’s almost meditative, a quiet place for Charlie’s mind to go to after the emotional upheaval of the last three weeks. 

He is so deep in the math that it takes him a few moments to notice that someone is yelling something that sounds suspiciously like his name. Looking up, he can make out Don and Terry running towards him.

“Charlie! Get down!”

Charlie doesn’t have time to process the words before something is shoving into his back, _hard_ , pushing him to the ground just as the sound of shattering glass explodes above him. 

“Charlie, stay down!”

Flattening himself against the ground, Charlie can barely breathe as his heart rate skyrockets. He is vaguely aware of David taking cover behind the car in front of them, and Don and Terry still running towards him before a loud shot echoes out through the air and then nothing. For a few moments, Charlie can barely bring himself to look up, terrified at the possibility that one of his friends, _his brother_ , could be lying in a pool of blood, the latest of Cane’s victims. 

Suddenly, there are hands pulling him over onto his back, and Don is there, alive, asking if he’s all right. It takes Charlie longer than he would like to admit to work out that the second shot must have been Ian, and the reason why everyone is suddenly calmer is because Cane is dead. Or at least too injured to remain a threat. He is mumbling a soft response in the affirmative to Don, crouched down next to the car, when suddenly Ian is standing above him, holding a rifle.

“Shooter’s down. Is he okay?”

Charlie can only stare at him with wide eyes, wishing that Ian would just drop the fucking gun and touch him instead. At this point, Charlie doesn’t care if Ian wants him or not. He almost died. A sniper almost killed him, and his sniper soulmate that doesn’t want him saved him by killing the other sniper and honestly if Charlie thinks the word ‘sniper’ one more time he is pretty sure he is going to burst into tears. Don, however, saves him from that humiliating possibility by drawing his attention away through righteous brotherly yelling.

“What are you, crazy? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“I was just, uh, working on some probabilities of where I thought Cane might position himself.”

To give credence to his words, Charlie holds up his clipboard, not as surprised as he should probably be when Ian takes it out of his hands, rather than Don. Ian seems to look over it briefly and Charlie can almost convince himself that there is a small smirk resting on the corners of Ian’s mouth as he looks over his estimates. 

“Actually, he was pretty close.”

And this might be the adrenaline talking, but Charlie is in love. Because even when he can barely contain himself inside his own skin because he shaking so badly, even when Don is somehow making this all worse with the disappointment that is mixed in with his worry and anger, Ian somehow knows exactly what to say to calm Charlie down. To make him feel something other than blinding fear. To make him feel like he is actually worth something outside of the hallowed halls of academia. 

“C’mon, I’ll get you out of here.”

With Don’s words, Charlie feels his brother grip onto his arm and pull him up until he’s standing.

“You alright?”

“I’m- I’m sorry.” 

Charlie can barely get the whispered words out, but he knows they need to be said. Knows that he is somehow proving everyone who said Don was crazy to let him out into the field right. 

“It’s all right. Just next time, use a phone, okay? C’mon, an ambulance was called out. It’s just over there, they can check you out and then we can get you home. And we will never, _ever_ , not on pain of death, tell Dad that this happened, okay?”

At Don’s dire pronouncement, Charlie bursts out into uncontrollable laughter. Better than tears, he supposes.

“Yeah, seems fair enough. I think he would have a stroke.”

“Nah. Forget a stroke, man, he would straight out rip my nuts off and feed them to me, and then find a way to permanently confine you to your office in CalSci. C’mon, paramedics are just here.”

After being checked out, the sum total of his injuries were some scratches on his hand that the paramedics sprayed with antiseptic and bandaged, clearing him to go home with instruction to rest, drink lots of fluids, and stay warm. Don, who had disappeared to do his job while Charlie was being treated, comes back over, ruffling Charlie’s hair as he sidles up beside him. In Don language, hair ruffling is akin to a public declaration of familial love and devotion, so Charlie knows he must have given Don a serious scare.

“I have to stay here with the team, but I organised for David to drop you home, okay? I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“What about Ian?” 

The question slips out from Charlie’s mouth before he even realises he wants to ask it. The weird look Don gives him in response is enough to make blood rush to his face, but Charlie tries to salvage the situation nonetheless.

“He saved my life.”

Don is still looking at him strangely, but after a moment or two he shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath that Charlie can’t quite catch.

“Edgerton is fine. My guess is, now that the case is wrapped up, he will stick around long enough to sort out the paperwork and then be off on his next assignment, or be sent back to Quantico.”

Charlie’s heart sank. Somewhere between getting shot and realising it took all of three weeks for him to fall in love with Ian, Charlie had decided that he didn’t care if Ian didn’t want him. He was going to try to convince him otherwise. But hearing that Ian will be leaving almost immediately, Charlie suddenly realises how stupid an idea that is. Ian has a whole other life on the other side of the country. For all Charlie knows, he’s married and has three kids and a golden retriever. Sure, it never came up, but whenever they talked it was usually about the case, and death and mayhem is not exactly a natural sequitur into discussions concerning one’s personal life. 

“I still want to say thank you. I mean, if he’s going to be gone so soon, it might be my only chance.”

“Fair enough, I guess. I think he’s still with David and Terry, so we’re heading that way anyway.”

Charlie nods, shuffling over in the direction that Don motioned towards. He has no clue what he was going to say. ‘Thanks for saving my life, you’re the best soulmate ever’? ‘I know you might be married and have a life in DC, but feel like dropping all of that to shack up with the local math guy’? ‘I think I’m in love with you and I need you to stay because you make the world make sense and I am terrified of losing that’? Yeah, Charlie doesn’t see any of those possibilities ending well. The last one could even land him with a restraining order. It sounds like something an insane stalker would say. Grumbling to himself, Charlie fails to realise that he and Don have reached David’s car until Don’s voice brings him to attention.

“Where’s Edgerton? Charlie wanted to thank him.”

“He left. Said he would meet us back at the office to do the paperwork.”

“He left?”

At Charlie’s soft question, all three FBI agents turn to look at him. Don and David both seem confused, but Charlie cringes at the knowing look in Terry’s eyes. Deciding that it was best to forgo public humiliation by breaking down cyring, Charlie straightens his shoulders, shifting his focus to David.

“Thanks for offering to give me a ride home. And for pushing me out of the way of an oncoming bullet. Especially the latter.”

“No problem, Charlie. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

The ride home was quiet and uneventful, with David seeming to realise without asking that Charlie was still in shock and needed to not be prodded. After he dropped Charlie off on the curb, Charlie wandered in to find his dad in the backyard staining the house. Deciding that he needed to do something completely unlike himself to get out of his own head, Charlie helped his Dad for a few hours until Don turned up. Just as Don was helping him move a tarp, though, the sound of the doorbell floats through the house and out the open back door.

“I’ll get it.”

With that, Don drops the tarp, darting back into the house and leaving Charlie to fumble with the oversized fabric. He and his father work in silence for a few moments, before the sound of Don’s voice starts to get louder. Looking up, Charlie almost chokes when he sees Ian standing next to Don, his gaze meeting Charlie’s with an intensity that literally takes his breath away.

“Ian.”

“Hey Professor.”

“Wha-What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something, actually. You mind?”

Shaking his head, Charlie moves forward only to suddenly jerk and fly towards to ground as his feet get caught in the tarp he had been fiddling with before. Wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole, Charlie closes his eyes and prays for death, only to be startled when an unfamiliar set of hands cup his face, lifting his chin, and bringing him face to face with a set of dark eyes.

“I distinctly remember you promising me you could walk, Professor.”

Charlie’s answer is stolen from him, however, when one of Ian’s hands shift, bringing it up into his hair, until it is lightly stroking through his curls.

“I’m confused.”

At Charlie’s statement, Ian huffs a laugh, shifting his body slightly so that his crouch is more comfortable, bringing Charlie’s attention to the fact that he is still sprawled across the ground. With Ian Edgerton’s hands stoking his hair and face. In front of his brother and father, both of whom, when Charlie glances towards them, look like they cannot believe what they are seeing. Well, good to know it’s not only Charlie. Ian doesn’t seem to like Charlie’s attention shifting away from him though, because he is soon putting pressure on Charlie’s head to draw his attention back to him.

“What are you confused about, Professor?”

“You’re here. In my backyard.”

“It would appear so.”

“But why?”

“We’ve been through that already, little one. I want to talk to you about something.”

At the use of the nickname, Charlie’s brain just about melts out of his ears. Which is a shame, really, because he kind of needs it for his job. 

“You said my words.”

As soon as he realises what he just said, Charlie flinches slightly. Ian must feel the flinch, because he hums softly and the fingers in his hair resume their movements.

“You said mine.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“I figured you either didn’t have my words, or you did and you didn’t want me.”

At Charlie’s response, Ian’s eyes flash dangerously and his hands increase their pressure. Not nearly enough to hurt, but enough that he has Charlie’s undivided attention.

“I wanted you from the second I saw you. Even before my words had come out of your mouth.”

In response to this revelation, Charlie’s jaw drops. To his absolute mortification he can feel tears suddenly falling down his cheeks, and he chokes back a sob that is doing its best to escape his chest.

“Then why d-didn’t you s-s-say something?”

“My words aren’t common for anyone else but me. In fact, you’re the third person who has said them to me.”

Charlie can’t help it. His eyes flick down to Ian’s right arm, then quickly move back to his eyes, then shift back down again. 

“I can’t remember what I said.”

At Charlie’s response, Ian’s mouth twitches up into a smile as he leans back enough that he can bring his hands down and pull up the sleeve of his right arm. And there, emblazoned across Ian’s arm is Charlie’s messy handwriting, barely legible to anyone but himself. Some ridiculous part of Charlie’s brain can’t help but wonder how long it even took Ian to parse out the exact meaning of the words. Maybe he will ask him one day. But right now, all Charlie wants to do is run his fingers over the letters.

_What makes you think he fired from your location?_

And, okay, perhaps Larry was right about the passive aggressiveness.

“You’re my soulmate.”

“Yeah. And you’re mine.”

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Charlie could hear an incredulous scoff and a small groan coming form the direction of his father and brother but didn’t get much of a chance to think about that fact before Ian’s lips were on his. Charlie couldn’t help himself as he threw his weight forwards towards Ian, catching the sniper off guard and tumbling them both onto the ground. Ian’s laughter broke the kiss for a few moments before Charlie is smothering the sound with his lips and tongue, listening as they are transformed into a low groan that seems to rumble from deep in Ian’s chest. After a few minutes, Charlie suddenly remembers something, breaking the kiss and panting softly a few inches away from Ian’s lips. 

“You told me to forget about the math.”

Charlie watches as a downright evil smirk graces Ian’s features, before the sniper pushes his fingers deeper into Charlie’s hair and brings his lips down to his again. Just before they touch, however, Ian murmurs softly in response, making Charlie consider revisiting his plans for throwing chalk at his face.

“Thought that might get your attention.”


End file.
